Never Again
by StillWaters1
Summary: As paramedics work on the fourteenth victim of Sherlock's most recent fan's "game," Lestrade deals with a surge of anger at how people like Sherlock operate…..and how it led to a scene he never wants to see again.


Title: Never Again

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: As paramedics work on the fourteenth victim of Sherlock's most recent fan's "game," Lestrade deals with a surge of anger at how people like Sherlock operate…..and how it led to a scene he never wants to see again.

Notes: After studying the same sixty-five seconds of TRF over a dozen times in order to write down observations for a rare Reichenbach-related story, I decided I needed a break. Putting those notes aside, I sat down and found this piece, almost fully formed, coming through my hands. There is a larger story here that I may eventually flesh out as I already have some notes toward that end. Lestrade has been quite active in my head lately – it was only after finishing this piece that I recalled his line from ASiP regarding Sherlock during the drugs bust: "well, I'm dealing with a child." Always neat to see the unconscious connections being made. Due to eye issues, I'm currently way behind in review replies again – my apologies for the lack of response. I'm incredibly grateful to everyone who takes time to review and PM. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.

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Thirteen.

Thirteen people dead in as many days; all victims of some sick pharmacist and his children's telly programme-inspired attempt to impress and outsmart Sherlock Holmes.

"_A" is for anaphylaxis after giving amoxicillin to a man with a penicillin allergy._

"_B" is for beta-blocker overdose in an asthmatic young woman._

"_C" is for cyanide toxicity from a massive injection of sodium nitroprusside to an elderly veteran… _

First Moriarty and his fairy tales, now this bastard with his pharmacological alphabet; children's lessons defiled and repurposed to one mutually dark end: death by boredom. More innocent casualties of a war between two genius-level adults engaged in nothing more than a child's 'I'm more clever than you are' contest; a truth its primary combatants either never realized or simply chose to ignore, each justifying his actions and behaviors as strategic moves in a highly intellectual chess match that only he and his opponent were deemed capable of understanding.

Lestrade had seen this pattern enough times between Moriarty and the immediate copycat aftermath of the criminal's death, that he generally reverted to a combination of weary resignation and reinforced resolve when faced with victims of a new "game."

But not today.

Today, Lestrade was _furious_.

Furious that Sherlock couldn't help but encourage and thrive on the game's puzzle and challenge, even as the death toll climbed.

Furious that he now had thirteen new obituaries clipped from the local papers in the black folder he kept at home.

And furious with what the poor, shaking woman in front of him had been forced to experience; the one who, while Sherlock was blindly running off after the suspect, had found, and possibly saved, the fourteenth victim.

A possibility growing frighteningly distant as the newly resuscitated man's eyes stared blankly past the paramedics; death's pressing reminder that breathing alone wasn't enough to mark this as a save.

Lestrade's mobile chirped, adding to the cacophony of rapid-fire medical jargon, crinkling equipment packaging, hastily cut-off swearing, and shocked breathing struggling to hold back tears.

_I've got him. SH _

Lestrade forced a steadying breath as he stabbed at the speed dial instead. Sod him and his bloody texting preference.

Sherlock's answering breath was an expectedly annoyed huff. "Is reading it not enough? I've got him," he enunciated the last three words with exaggerated care; voice saturated with irritation at Lestrade's call where it wasn't breathless from the thrill of the chase.

Lestrade wasn't surprised at the anger that colored his reply; what _did_ surprise him was how much he actually managed to hold back. "Yeah, well I've got John," he countered shortly.

In the rare moment of stunned silence before Sherlock fully processed the implications of that response, Lestrade got to his feet, trained eyes studying the familiar flat where the letter "N" had ended it all.

A letter its victim must have seen coming as he tried to treat himself before the drug took hold.

A letter that still might add him to the final death toll.

And the letter at the heart of Lestrade's unusual fury.

He'd seen a lot of death in his career; a steady parade of awful things that continually displaced whichever one he'd previously held to be the worst of the lot. So it wasn't surprising that he now had a new 'worst of the worst'; a winner courtesy of two weeks of minimal sleep, thirteen deaths at the hands of two ignorant men who pursued intellectual stimulation at the expense of innocent lives, another potential death – one that would shatter his own inner circle – en route to hospital, and the letter "N." No, none of it was surprising. It was just…..too much. One of those rare, volatile combinations that made him too angry for his typical external responses and practiced coping mechanisms to take hold.

Because "N" was for **n**arcotic overdose. For Sherlock **n**ot thinking and **n**ot being there. For the **n**aloxone reversal its intended victim had attempted to self-administer.

But most of all, "N" was for _**n**__ever_ wanting to see Mrs. Hudson performing CPR on John Watson ever again.


End file.
